the life of a kids next door agent
by zman123
Summary: A sad, tragic tale of how a once great member of kids next door, and great member of the legendary sector, sector z fell from glory and became the hated enemy of kids next door she is today. A gripping tale sure to touch the heart of any kids next door fan. Please comment if you want me to add more chapters. Sorry it is incomplete


**The life of a "kids next door" agent**

 **The worst story ever**

C **hapter 1 : fiendish father**

I was born in a year I had long forgotten, born to a duo of addicts. Drug addicts that is, drug addicts smokers alcoholics and gamblers. My parents were gamblers, gamblers who gambled most of what little salary they earned away at the casino and blew the rest on wine and various drugs like weed and cocaine. My dad, though both groggy and overweight, was unusually muscular and my mother was almost as muscular as he.

I must say , sadly I never liked my father much, nor did he like me much. They say first impressions of people were often wrong and that they often improved with time. But the first impression most people had of my father that he was a irresponsible drug addict and that he was a terrible person were absolutely correct, as I soon came to realise.

My parents never had a particularly high opinion of me , especially my father who claimed during many of his drunken fits that I was nothing but a nuisance and a waste of space and energy and often called me names that I would prefer not to go into detail about.

I had, since I was a young toddler, asked myself why my father seemed to feel such a profound hatred of me that no matter how hard I tried to please him, no matter how polite and respectful I behaved toward him, no matter how many chores around the house I did for him , no matter how hard I tried to show my affections toward him, he only seemed to hate me more. Why was this?

Was it because I wasn't as respectful as I ought to be? Was it because I was not, despite my best efforts trying hard enough? Or was it that my father simply for no clear reason had a passionate and strong antipathy towards children in general. Out of all these guesses the latter was probably the closest to being correct as the true reasons for this irrational hatred my father exhibited towards me as it was to an extent true that he hated children as I often saw him in the worst mood when he saw young children outside our apartment window but the actual reason as to his disdain towards me was, as he told me when I was of age to understand, (by which I mean when I was somewhere between the age of four or five) was that he abhorred people who did not agree with his gender by which I meant he was sexist , sexist to an extreme extent, sexist from head to toe, and it was not my obedience or my will which was at fault for him to dislike, it was my gender and the fact I was not blessed with the gift of manhood which he hated with every bit of his empty, emotionless,cold, stony, heart.

You might now be thinking that I was exaggerating, as you may be thinking ,surely this father of mine could not possibly be as bad as I claimed and that I was surely joking.

I only wished I could say that was true but,as much as I wished I could I could not.

My mother was not much better towards me either, she too shared in the sexist attitudes of my cruel, wicked , fiendish father, and whenever my father was absent from the scene, she would take over for him in torturing me and making my already miserable existence all the worse. It was as if my mother was the henchman of my fiendish father, for whenever I looked to her for counsel or mercy against the rage and mistreatment given to me, she would simply reply that my father was right in everything he did and that daddy's girl ought to beg on the streets, not bring shame and embarrassment to the honourable household of my parents.

It should also be said that my father was a man of war, conflict and anger, and that though he had been to more than 3 anger management courses, they all ended with him hitting the manager after violently yelling that no one told him who he could or could not yell at.

 **Chapter 2 : cruel childhood**

To call my father a cruel man would be the understatement of the century, he was not simply cruel, he was... Hellish. Hellishly cruel and wicked. He seemed to enjoy watching me suffer as he would often make biting remarks to my disadvantages , and yet I did not cry, I didn't because I couldn't as each tear I dared to shed resulted in another jaw crushing smack in the face. He abused me and harassed me not 3 or 4 times each week, nor once or twice a day but at every opportunity he found.

He deprived me of food. Though my mother and father blew a large chunk of their meagre salary on drugs , cigarettes, and alcohol, they still had enough money left for what seemed like the most delicious meals for you see, they never cooked, but instead ate from the finest restaurants and takeaways instead. Monday, they ate pizza with lasagna on the side, Tuesday, it was haddock and chips, and Wednesday, a huge roast meal complete with a plump, juicy, tender... Well you get the picture. And each day there was gorgeous gelato ice cream for dessert in various flavours.

Not only did they refuse to allow me to accompany them to these grand eateries, let alone share with me some of the delicious dishes, they forced me to stand outside and watch as they gorged themselves on such tasty treats, and not a scrap was left for the poor, wretched daddy's girl of the household, who was becoming increasingly skinny and weak day by day. Even as a baby I was fed as sparingly as possible, and the food put beside me each day seemed only to lessen with time.

But it got worse. Not content with pinching me of food and nourishment, my father would often storm home, furious with his losses at the casino (you see drugs and gambling often went together) and to relieve himself of this stress which was completely his own fault, he would often strike me repeatedly with a length of rope, which was soon discarded and replaced by "cat o nine tails" ,the most feared torture device during the slave trade period, so that the pain caused by each torture session was doubled if not tripled compared to when he used the rope.

All this was made worse by the fact that sometimes his rage with his loss at the casino was so great, or his alcohol consumption was so high it clouded his judgment that he not only whipped me like a slaver who slashed at his slaves, or a warden, an ill tempered, overbearing warden punished his prisoners, he would fly at the nearest piece of furniture, whatever it was, before mercilessly smashing it onto daddy's girl's bones until tiredness overcame him, or the furniture used as the weapon somehow broke apart under the power of the blows.

He beat me with no more concern than a angry child breaking a toy during one of their meltdowns. it was truly terrifying (and worsened by his fearsome temper) and even during his better moods he would still whip me several times, however well I behaved. In fact it could be said I limped more often than I walked during my childhood, chairs, tables and vases , even telephones,had all, at one time or another, been slammed into my bones. I was therefore often on the verge of becoming lame and paralysed.

And do not even get me started on the fact I had neither bed nor duvet,not even a radiator in the cold, dust filled room I was given as a dormitory by my parents, and that I had neither toys, books or games to amuse myself and that I was forbidden to touch the computer, iPad or TV all of which my father and mother passed many a happy night in front of.

I was therefore, since I was 3 years of age, forced to satisfy my hunger with pigeon meat which I learnt to hunt and scavenge( like many cities in the United States there seemed to be almost no end to the number of pigeons flying around) and, if I was lucky and the opportunity arose, I would go, when I was out of my dad's sight, to a restaurant or neighbour.

There I would try, with tears in my eyes, try to look as desperate as possible in the hope that pity would be shown to poor, hungry and frankly, seriously malnourished daddy's girl.

If , by some stroke of luck, the manager of the restaurant or neighbour happened to be in a particularly good mood, I was given leftovers, though they were usually cold, and the quantity was not nearly enough to satisfy my hunger, which grew only stronger day by day. However 9 out of 10 times, daddy's girl was shod out with a broom, or grabbed, and thrown out, into the street, where, with a hard and painful thump, I hit the cobblestones and lay there for sometimes half an hour, reeling with pain and embarrassment. One time I even offered to give my jacket, as well as wash the dishes and mop the floor in exchange for a small portion of food, but it was in vain, for I had not the gift of boyhood, only the curse of girlhood , which resulted in a jug of hot water being tipped over me while the patrons of the restaurant, looked on and jeered at me.

 **Chapter 3: bad bullies**

I was 6 years of age and a bit when, for the first time I entered into what was called a "school". It was music to my ears when I looked to my father for consent for an education and after some thought , he reluctantly agreed. I was overjoyed for the "Albert Einstein elementary for girls" was ,from what I heard and saw on a newspaper, a great place for education. They taught many languages and placed a great emphasis on science and engineering.

Interesting lessons with fun presentations were offered to students alongside a fully equipped gym and 5 star gourmet canteen, and as if things could not be better, it was a boarding school with a huge lending library and game room and each student was provided with large, comfortable rooms with hot showers and computers and wifi complete with high definition plasma screen TV's, I could finally live in luxury and peace out of the way of the Hellish fiend I called father.

But, best of all was that there was a state of the art healthcare system where the doctors were so good they never went home and were on standby 24/7. Some said they were actually all time travellers from the year 2250, a year when humans had mastered science so well,they were on the brink of immortality. Nothing, in my opinion could be better than finally being able to walk, jog and run like others, instead of limping weakly like the injured person I was and to finally be cured of my insomnia, which had been present in me, daddy's girl, since I was a baby.

I finished reading the article and thought for a brief second that perhaps my unfortunate life might turn out well after all.

But of course it was not to be, for though my alcoholic, drug addled father placed me into attendance in one of the Albert Einstein elementary schools, it was , tragically, the one built for ...dare I say it, boys.

"This is the only school I'm prepared to offer you so take it or leave it " growled daddy as he dropped his daddy's girl at the entrance to the dark, decrepit, and poor excuse for a school, "I will not have you mixing with bratty, ratty girls and even if you are not a boy, (I often wished I was so that perhaps my father would not be so mean to me as he was now) I want you to mix with other boys so that maybe you'll learn some of the good behaviours us men exhibit" he said as he drove away.

So there I was, in the principle's office, staring weakly at the giant, muscular, ape-like figure that was the principle.

"I would like you to know that the only reason I've let you into our glorious place of education is because your father and I are good friends" growled the principal as soon as he had shut the door and sat behind his desk. "You should think of it as a privilege that I have accepted you here, and I would like you to know that , should you make the slightest mistake..." Here he clenched his teeth and clenched his hands into fists " do be prepared for a most forceful eviction".

"Sir"I said "this is apparently, according to my father, a boarding school, so please, sir , please tell me where I will live"

"Our school has a reputation for providing some of the best living quarters to our pupils " , replied the principal as he folded his huge , hulking arms, "the dormitory is a 5 minute walk from the school , here,s a map" , he threw me the map "inside the dorms are a huge jacuzzi, a heated swimming pool, a massive lending library and large comfortable rooms for each pupil, complete with a plasma screen TV and computers"

I could not believe my ears " thank you sir" ,I said gratefully but as I turned , sir laughed and mockingly replied, "of course this royal treatment is reserved for strong gifted boys and men so don't be expecting any of it, no you see as you belong to the weaker gender, it stands to reason that you will serve no use to society when you grow up , and hence why should we waste resources on useless little brats like you, so you will instead be living in a small wooden shed that we've left abandoned for some time, expect then many bugs and loads of fungus, and as for a bed, the hard stony floor is the only bed for useless pieces of junk such as yourself and that other little brat whose name I can,t be bothered to remember".

After he said this the headmaster dismissed me and, as soon as I left the office, began to laugh and thump loudly , making merry at my expense.

I thought the headmaster was joking, he was not.

It turned out that the poor excuse for a home he had provided me with was indeed, a decrepit, dark shed. It smelled of manure and sweat. There was neither bed nor radiator and fungus covered the walls and roof like wallpaper. Cold draughts blew through the window, causing me to shiver. And in the corner of the little room, sat my roommate, who made neither sound nor motion as I entered and sat down to rest.

It was here I began to reflect more deeply than ever on my miserable life which I had lived so far.

So far I had felt neither joy nor friendship in my 6 years of sadness and grief, only hatred and bitterness from my uncaring, heartless parents, who simply because I had neither the body nor appearance of a man, believed me to be useless. My father was a soldier once ,a very good one he claimed, and desperately wanted a strong , manly son to follow in his footsteps. His role was a sniper, and he loved the feeling of being a god as he took aim at helpless enemies, all unaware of his presence, and gunned them down one by one, as much as he loved rushing towards the enemy, and mowing them down relentlessly with his prized Ak47 ( a kind of gun) which he hung on the wall and loved to gaze at. My father and I shared one thing, we both hated the Middle East and its inhabitants badly. We both wished to accomplish one goal, to kill the bastard (pardon my language) who led the Islamic state militants, and liberate the Middle East from tyranny and war.

But to my father, a female, a girl, a woman was nothing but a wimp, a wimp who screamed over things as minor as a spider. "I had but one dream" he said to me one day when for once he was sober and calm "And that was to have a son, a strong manly son who was brave, valiant and fearless just like I was, a son who I would send into the battlefield to follow in my footsteps as a war hero, a son who would make me proud when he came back from the war with a medal on his shirt, but you are not that son, you are a bastard, a dirty , useless, stupid, bastard. You embarrass me so much, if only you were that son I would tell you how much I love you, but you are not that son, you are not my son, you are a daughter, and that is why I will forever be dissatisfied with your efforts" Though I felt sorry for my father that I did not please him, it did not lessen my burning hatred for him.

I hated my father, I hated him for being the dirty scumbag he was. I hated the way he did not feed me and yet made me do all the work in the house. Scrubbing the bathroom, re painting the walls, sweeping the floors, fixing the window, taking out the garbage, all of it was my job and more, and what thanks did I get?, none, I got none.

So here I was, away from him at last, what a relief... After six years of punishment daddy,s girl finally escaped that brute. Maybe I would finally find peace, even if I only had this shed to sleep in.

But I was dead wrong, instead of being smacked by my father, I found bullies here who were just as backward as him and treated me just as cruelly. From the first day I entered the school, I was marked for fire and abuse. Horrible bullies went out of their way to punish me because they could and enjoyed pain and suffering.

Unlike me , unlike daddy,s girl, they were well fed, so well fed that they were fat beyond compare, they looked so fat that I was surprised that anyone could ever grow to be that fat. There were many of them and each one was meaner that the last and each was willing to use their superiority as males, the dominant gender of the world , to harass me. Day and night they picked on me, stealing my homework, stealing my lunch, pushing my head into the toilet, spilling various things ranging from coke to black pen ink down my shirt. They even punched me and gave me wedgies and still got away with it. That was the worst part.

By the end of the first week my uniform was already covered in bloodstains and rips.

The worst part was not that for the next 3 months I was harassed endlessly, and suffered even more injuries so that my ability to walk properly instead of limping was reduced even further. The worse part was the grown ups. They were the tip of the spear, they could have stopped the bullies and spared me the pain and humiliation, yet they did not.

In fact they encouraged the bullies to bully me even more and for what reason? The same reason my father abused me for, for not being one of the guys and for being a female. The grown ups and teachers did horrible things to me such as forcing me to kiss their feet and giving me triple as much homework as the other boys as well as never giving me a grade above the c grade, and forcing me to clean the toilets and emptying the garbage, all of which I had to do after lights out, which not only deprived me of sleep, but made my insomnia and limping even worse than before.

It was they who intensified my hatred of grown ups even further ,for since my entry into that school I found it hard to trust any grown up and regarded each and every grown up I saw with suspicion and paranoia.

To make a long story short, my entry into education at my new boarding school freed me from my father, but placed me in an equally bad , if not worse situation.

 **Chapter 4: Daddy's girl**

Just where are my manners, just where are daddy,s girl,s manners, I do apologise for my rudeness, please do excuse me for my ill manners. So far you have read 3 long chapters of this story and yet you haven,t the foggiest idea of my appearance, my character or my name, you only have an idea of my sad, miserable life.

I was so engrossed in narrating the sad tale of my excruciatingly painful existence, I never introduced myself. So allow me please, to take a brief reprieve from the story of my life and experience so that you may know me better, as by now you must be so frustrated at not having a picture in your mind of the character who is telling you their story.

You will probably already know from the previous chapters, about my gender, which I do not care to repeat as there is no need to, had you only been paying attention to the little details.

My name, I didn't really have one, my father only ever referred to me as the bastard or the stupid cow. So when I was asked my name by the teacher for the first time, I could only stare at him cluelessly, unsure how to answer, until I began to remember a novel which I had once read as a toddler and, still remembering the names of a few characters, I said, "you can call me Ashley".

My name, therefore, if you wish to address me, would be Ashley, but really my true title, my favourite alias which I prefer to be referred to is "daddy,s girl", for even though I loathed my father, deep down I loved him also and deep down, I would do anything to please him.

I wish I had a photo that I could show you of myself, but alas, I do not, so you will have to be content with a written description and using your imagination.

I was an alien to my parents, for though my father was a Schwarzkopf (a black haired person) my mother was a brunette. I was neither, I was a result of mutations, probably because my parents did not heed the doctor's advice of not smoking and not drinking alcohol or taking harmful drugs such as cocaine during pregnancy. I was a blonde and this disappointed me and my parents, for it was downright unnatural for a child to look like neither of their parents, unless they were adopted.

My hair, like those of many who were not blessed with the gift of manhood, was long and neat, it was neat as I brushed it often. Though I knew full well that beggars can't be choosers, I enjoyed fashion, and, unlike my drug addict parents and lazy people like Zhuoran , I cared very strongly about how I presented myself to others so as to give them a good impression of me, however badly treated I was.

I kept my nearly shoulder length, blonde hair down and held it in place with a pink ribbon, tied in the shape of a bow.

The pink ribbon was my most prized possession for I had been given it by a hairdresser (who was one of the closest things I had to a friend) who I went to one day during my 4th birthday when my father had kicked me out of the house, to wander the streets, but with no money and no gifts, and by some stroke of luck, this oddly friendly grown up saw me shivering and cold outside his shop, and out of the kindness of his heart, not only cut me a thick slice of bread from his dinner, but, after hearing it was my birthday and that once again, I had received no gifts from my greedy , evil father, handed me the ribbon and after explaining that it had once belonged to his long dead daughter, gave it to me as a humble offering so that at least this year I would not go without a present. Though, as a rule, I did not like grownups, this man was to me, a saint for something in the way he spoke made me trust him, yet sadly, I never saw him again after I left him.

I treasured my pink bow like a bar of solid gold, for it was a sign that not every grown up was the rotten bastard my father was (though most of them were) and what's more, when I wore my bow, I felt dapper, I felt refined, I felt this simple accessory, simple as it was, seemed to improve not only my appearance, but my social status also, and it kept my hair out of my face. Despite my father,s protests, soon I never took my pink bow off my hair, I even slept with it on, for as long as I wore my bow, I was no longer simply a sad, miserable girl, I had become a sad, miserable bow-girl and that made me very happy. I even felt that my pink bow seemed to lessen the pain caused by my father's beatings.

I was very thin, and looked to most people as if a gentle tap would be enough to smash me into tiny pieces. Due to poor diet and bad treatment, I was little more than skin and bones. And because my father frequently beat me, I could not walk well and could usually only limp along slow as a tortoise, let alone run or jog. This may come as a shock to you but my urine was, more often than not, streaked with blood and all because my old man took his sexism too far.

Even when I entered my school, I did not improve in weight as the bullies often stole my lunch and dinner, sometimes they ate it themselves, other times they threw it at me, staining my uniform.

My only set of clothes, before I went to the horrible place I called my school, were my old man's combat fatigues which he no longer wanted. Fortunately for me, when my father conscripted as a solider, only one set of uniform was left for him and it was the smallest size of all. Of course my old man would never buy any new clothes for his daddy's girl, so these were the only clothes I had . Those clothes, by a happy coincidence fit on reasonably well despite the fact that they were soaked with mud and dirt as well as blood from gun wounds, and could always use a good cleaning. Though wearing it made me look very stupid and ridiculous.

I hated grown-ups, hated them with a passion, a strong, burning passion. I found it hard to trust any grown up, especially my teachers, for they were as sexist as my father and mother. Grownups, to me, always seemed to believe the best of the bad guys (the bullies at my school) and the worst of the good and innocent (me). They were, at least in my opinion, all smokers, alcoholics and drug addicts who cared only about themselves (my teachers were also smokers and alcoholics). I did not hate all grown-ups, I only hated 99.9 percent of them, for, deep down I knew that some were still as kind, friendly and innocent as a kid, though this did not stop me from thinking how lovely the world would be if no one ever became a grown up and everyone stayed young forever.

I loved refined things, I had no idea what "refined" meant but I knew whatever it meant it described something very good. I learned the word when one day, before I left home to go to my boarding school, I could not sleep, I snuck out of my bedroom and, determined to find some way of entertaining myself, snuck into the computer room and, after turning on the computer, using my old man's loud snores as cover, daddy's girl passed what seemed like the happiest day of her life in front of the fun machine her father had forbidden her to touch, but freely enjoyed himself. I played a game, a fun game about how a charming, hardworking and friendly ,yet very unlucky young man called George, while waiting for his train to arrive, caught sight of a beautiful, yet somewhat shy young woman, who before they had a chance to talk or socialise, boarded her train, and, knowing this would probably be his one chance at romance in his lonely life.

George, our hero, decides to abandon his job and plans to go after her, but encounters many dangers and enemies along the way, but for true love he braved them all. It was a great game which had the cutest romantic storyline along with great gameplay, well worth the £100 my dad paid for it (it was probably so expensive because it was so good a game).

Our hero started with only a wooden sword, but with time, it became a copper sword, then a bronze sword, then a sharp, powerful iron sword, before finally upgrading to the mighty, finely crafted steel sword. But the steel sword, strong as it was, wasn't the strongest, for there was one sword that outdid the steel sword, the refined sword which was made from an awesome alloy forever kept secret and, according to game, was for "gentlemen and scholars only" and "granted foes a worthy end" as well as being "elegant and efficient". From that night on I vowed that I too would strive to become as "refined" as possible, as if the refined armour and weapons were the strongest in the game, it stands to reason that "refined" people must be the best people.

I also had pale blue eyes, which had held back more tears in the six years I lived than most people cried in their lives.

If you asked me to describe my character in 3 words, I personally would say, imperfect, determined and shy.

I was imperfect as I was not blessed with the gift of boyhood and if I was I would certainly be respected more.

I used to determine to describe myself as, despite my horrible life and multiple injuries which impeded my ability to walk, I still got by with no crutches or wheelchair and had not once suffered depression and never had the slightest suicidal thought, suicide to me was very dishonourable and cowardly. I thought If I tried hard enough, maybe one day my father would give me a hug, and if I was lucky, a kiss, and I vowed to keep on trying my hardest to please him until then. Each time I saw my father, my teachers and my bullies, I had 20 times a mind to give them a slap in the face (if I told the teachers the bullies were bullying me they would not listen as I was a girl and this was a boy only school) but determination allowed me to control my wrath, and if I allowed myself to act on my impulses, I would become just as bad as the grown-ups I hated and that was not me, I wanted to be better than them. I believed that there was never a reason to yell at anyone.

My biggest flaw, in my opinion was my shyness, it was not something a main character in a story should have as it will likely make the story a boring one. If you wish to read a action packed story full of interesting adventures and hilarious jokes and puns, you had better read some other story instead for I, the main character, was sadly, a person of few words. Most people had speech skill which improved with age, but I wasn't most people, for my speech seemed only to reduce with time. My father banned me from speaking unless spoken to, and if I broke the rule, he would choke me (really he would) and nearly kill me.

I was very different as a toddler, I had a carefree smile upon my face and could walk reasonably well, I was, despite being only a toddler, a person of many words, but frequent sore throats due to stress and frequent beatings each time I spoke, gradually removed the ability to speak well and most times I tried to speak, after leaving my father, even at school, I stumbled and felt too nervous to go on, my father took my speech away from me by strangling me for speaking each time I spoke.

It was not good, for just as a silent movie where no one spoke did not earn nearly as much money as one where many words were spoken(paper man was a Disney movie that could have been several times more successful and perhaps even made into a successful series had the characters been able to speak), a person of few words never received as much attention or friendship as a person of many words. And each time I did, with much effort, manage to speak, I stuttered and my voice was usually hardly louder than a whisper and I felt pain all over my body and a splitting headache which worsened with each word I spoke.

A person of few words was not someone to be liked, for how were you supposed to make conversation with a person who could not answer your remarks or introduce themselves and tell you about themselves. To make a long story short, a girl of few words never made any friends, let alone boyfriends and forever remained a friendless Virgin.

It was bad enough being a girl and not a boy but all the worse that I was not a girl of many words, but a girl of few.

Were I not a person of so few words, perhaps the bullies would have stopped their bullying long ago.

 _ **Chapter 5: absurd ambitions**_

When you had no possessions, no friends and no future, you had dreams instead. And boy did daddy's girl have dreams. I lived in a town, a primitive, unfair town where many like me were disadvantaged.

The town's name was "Manville " and in the centre of the town, was a large sculpture of a man striding over a fallen woman. You could say that though the town I lived in was in the United States, it followed Greek traditions such as the fact only males could become doctors. In a similar way, only males could become teachers, only males could become clerks and/or work in an office, and only males were given the right to enter universities and/or colleges and only males could do a bunch of other things, females were banned from.

Only male beggars were given benefits in my town. In fact, when my father beat me, he often said that he was only following the traditions of the town, but really I think it was because he was getting poorer because of his gambling and drug abuse and needed someone to take out his anger on. Still it was my dream one day to leave this accursed town and never, ever return.

There was one exception to the sexism rule in Manville.

If the female could prove she had served in the army long enough, she would be considered a man and treated as such. This was the reason my mum was loved by my father, for she had been, according to her account, a captain in the American army for over 11 years, after sneak ing in and disguising herself as a boy, and had a collection of bruises and battle scars as well as a large collection of medallions and uniforms to prove it.

My other dream, was to make my old man proud by also joining the army. But how could I do that when I had too great a preference of skirts and blouses over trousers and shorts and my bones and muscles were so weak and feeble? But I still dreamed of it for though war was dangerous, I was a daddy's girl, and I preferred to die, loved and respected by my father, then to live despised by him.

My third dream, was to rid the world of all grown-ups. I hated grown-ups for their sexist attitudes and the fact they did not pity the weak and helpless or give alms to the poor, and I pitied the millions of other children who must be suffering the same fate as I, such as my roommate, the only other girl in my school who I shared my shed with, who was deaf and nearly blind as her father had cut out her ears, and nearly gouged out her eyes, when she scored 1 less than the full mark in a test, and was prone to sudden fits of rage due to him frequently taking cocaine, and often forced her to smoke it too, or he would strangle her to death. I promised her I would, if I could, revenge her by taking down as many horrible grown-ups as I could.

To make a long story short I wanted to live in a world where there were no horrible grown-ups, the only grown-ups there would be nice, friendly ones who believed in "created equal" when it came to gender equality between the two genders.

My fourth, final and strongest dream was a dream countless girls throughout the world, at least in the Hollywood films I loved, this was the case.

It was a dream many who had already achieved it took for granted, and did not seem to appreciate enough. It was a dream that if I wanted to be granted to me, I would do well to buy skirts and blouses as well as take a good shower along with some deodorant and the fact I had only trousers and no skirt or blouse, and spoke very little, greatly setback my efforts. And that dream was to have, despite my fault of not being able to say much and low social status, a prince, a boyfriend and, in the long run, a dear future husband to back me up in the long and never ending battles that occurred in the life of every human. I cared little about what he wore or what he looked like, and I could not care less whether he was from the wealthiest family from the finest mansion in New York, or from the poorest family, from the poorest slum in Bangalore or Sudan. It mattered only that when danger struck, be it an army of assassins closing in on me, or me stuck in a building on fire when he had already got out and the fire brigade were not going to be at the scene anytime soon, he would, despite the threat to his life, not leave me behind, but stay and risk himself to help me, and of course I would return the favour. But of course I would never find a boyfriend, let alone one as noble as I described, for the only boys I came into contact with took no interest in me except in trying to make my life a living hell.

None of those four dreams I described would ever come true, they were but fantasies I thought constantly about to give myself a reason to keep on living and to keep my suicidal thoughts controlled, especially the one that involved a boyfriend, for how, when I was not in the slightest "refined" or "elegant " could I expect such things.

Still, just in case one day a chance arose, I prepared by spending as much time as possible reading up on guns, battle strategies and self-defence tactics (like Kung Fu and karate) as well as good dating tips.

I read for at least 3 hours a day, as soon as I was out of site of the bullies in my shed at school, for the library was one of the few privileges I was allowed to access, so I made the most of it, in this way already I was developing more knowledge about fighting, bullies and teachers beware!

 _ **Chapter 6: terrifying title**_

My quick tempered, angry father had a name that described him better than any word in the English dictionary or any dictionary for that matter could. It described and explained wholly the reasons for his aggression and his huge, muscular, bulky appearance. His name, was Bull.

 **Chapter 7 : kind Kung fu master**

After 3 months of attending my school, I was fed up. Terrible teachers and brutal beatings from brutal bullies, not to mention being worked like a dog having to take out the garbage and clean the toilets had worn me out, to the extent where even my iron hard determination was breaking and I felt as if I was breathing my last. If only, I thought, if only I was stronger and more powerful, I would show those bullies the error of their ways, but for now, I could do nothing but grit my teeth and bear it.

It happened that on that particular day our usual sports teacher, the despicably cruel "Mr cruel" was away and that for once we had a cover. Now this was no ordinarily cover teacher, rather this was an out of the ordinary, extremely eccentric funny man, yet very gentlemanly, eccentric but eccentric in a good way and manner. He had only been at this school for a couple weeks but already every pupil, even I, had conceived a liking to him.

He was not an American, nor was he a British or even a Canadian. He was a Japanese and that made him unique, for though he spoke good English, his accent showed him to be a Japanese at heart.

He was funny, making fun jokes and devising fun, enjoyable activities for us to enjoy, and each lesson with him felt more like a break than a lesson, yet each lesson was strangely educational too, somehow, teaching us things we would never have thought to learn.

But what I, and I alone secretly loved about him was his purity. He was not vindictive like my other teachers such as Mr psychopath, Mr Sadist or Mr Sexist, he was kind and tolerant and accepting of my differences (in gender) and treated me with the kindness he treated everyone else with (with, I had a right to deserve as I did nothing wrong and I did as I was told and never complained).

He was, at least in my eyes, a man to be trusted in, for something in his eyes differentiated him from the other cruel and heartless grown ups


End file.
